


there's no taking from saints (they gave it all away)

by NotSummer



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Humor, F/F, F/M, Humor, Multi, They need it, i will never not be sad for these three, let them rest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 07:52:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8836429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotSummer/pseuds/NotSummer
Summary: A Warden, a Champion, and an Inquisitor walk into a bar.





	

A Warden, a Champion and an Inquisitor all walk into a bar.

 _It should be a joke_ , Cousland thinks. _There might be one out there already. She’ll have to ask her husband: he would know._

 _There’s a punchline coming_ , Hawke thinks, _even if it’s in the form of a bar fight. Get it? Because- no, it wasn’t that funny. She must have left her wit in her other pants._

 _She’s thirsty_ , the Herald muses. _She wonders if Dorian has left any of the good wine, or if she’ll have to choke down the swill her lover is so fond of._

But whispers follow in their wake, and their shadows darken reverent gazes. These are the most powerful women in the world, the people agree. As the storied trio climbs the stairs and reach the top floor, however, the gilding has rubbed off, and the paint has worn thin.

Hawke’s greatsword is growing rust in the handle’s grooves, and a collection of scars and sins has turned her confident stride into a weary limp. The Inquisitor’s left sleeve is empty, but not quite as blank as her eyes. There are shadows under the Warden’s eyes darker than any Taint, and her hair is lank and drooping where it has fallen out of the bun once so pristinely kept.

Shoulders burdened and forged in the crucible of necessity, scarred limbs more comfortable with blades and staves than books and lovers, eyes darting everywhere as bodies are habitually positioned where they can see every exit: these are the things they share.

They share the same sleepless nights, calling for lovers in the throes of their fear, and when familiar hands brush the pain away, they lie and say they feel better.

They share the weary smiles, where mouths no longer remember how to stretch ear to ear, and if they once knew how to grin and light up rooms with their delight: this has been lost to them as well.

 _In life, sacrifice_ , the warden huffs, apart from her husband, unable to rest, unable to live.

 _The city takes and it takes and it takes and it takes until there is nothing, until you are a hollow vessel of sorrow and regret_ , the Champion sobs, her soul scattered and shattered and tattered.

 _If she’s dying, it’s not today_ , the Inquisitor asserts; no, she died long ago, when they handed her a sword, and she stopped being her and started being the Inquisitor.

Such is the price of power, of becoming the title, and ceasing to be the woman underneath.

Cousland, who laughs until she snorts, who prefers her mabari and her daggers to salons and parties and keeps a hundred different explosive flasks with her to juggle in her boredom.

The Queen, who demurely brokers agreements, who can’t be seen in the kennels, and wears a crown heavy with the people’s faith.

Hawke, who makes the worst bird puns, who swings her blade with wild abandon, and loves so fiercely.

The Champion, who will always stand before her people and conflict, who never lets a blow land on anyone else when she can take it without flinching.

Trevelyan, who is naive and afraid, who never forgets a thing, and cites long forgotten books in casual conversation.

The Inquisitor, armed with ancient magics, the fate of people ancient and unborn in her hands, who plays the Game like a finely tuned lute.

**So this is the joke: A Warden, a Champion and an Inquisitor walk into a bar, and those who watch are shocked to to find they are people.**

**Author's Note:**

> I will never not be sad for Hawke/HoF/Inquisitor by the way. Small little children, lost to their positions and their burdens.


End file.
